


I have eaten a lot of apricots, and I love you very, very, very much.

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (i tried to put EVERYONE in), (more like nabokov's amazing writing), (they fight like once), Established Relationship, Fluff, Headcanon, Insecurities, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Mild Angst, Rare Pairing, Rarepair, Shiratorizawa, Timeskips, Vaguely Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 11:11:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13680507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Wakatoshi finds that it’s hard for him to properly express the depth of his feelings for Kenjirou, so he takes his English teacher’s (cliche) suggestion and dives into prose and poetry to borrow words of adoration.





	I have eaten a lot of apricots, and I love you very, very, very much.

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think Kawanashi and Shirabu are childhood friends? I also made them half-European, because my friend firmly headcanons Shirabu as Finnish and Kawanashi as Swedish, because a. she is half Finnish, and b. she loves Hetalia. So this is for you boo. 
> 
> I was reading some of Nabokov's letters to his wife, Vera, and I just liked his descriptions so much-I really like the one about the boiled milk sky. There's a compilation of them published, I highly recommend them. He's so in love with Vera, it's so cute.
> 
> There's a rant at the end of the work about my perceptions of Ushijima and Shirabu, if you want to read it.
> 
> There's a spoiler for Devilman Crybaby, believe it or not. Skip the short paragraph after (“Seriously, you really are tactless.” Tendou bemoans. “You’re too blunt.”) if you don't want to be spoiled.

" _I have eaten a lot of apricots, and I love you very, very, very much.”_ Ushijima declares one day in English, accent sticking to his Ts and Ls, dripping sweat in the middle of the gym, staring down Shirabu with an intense gaze. Ushijima’s words are warmer than the morning sun burning outside the gym doors.

 

_(“Wha?” Goshiki faintly mumbles in the distance. He’s not the best at English.)_

 

Shirabu colours brightly, and tucks his chin into his chest, gestures Ushijima closer with curling fingers, nose dipping into shadows as honey dipped hair falls into his matching saccharine eyes.

 

Ushijima dips his head down, matching his ear to Shirabu’s arched lips. Everyone peers at them-the relationship a few months old already-curious at the closeness of the two. Washijo isn’t in today, and the two seemed to be taking advantage of that. Saitou is carefully turning a blind eye to the contrasting pair.

 

Shirabu’s lips are pressed close to Ushijima’s ear, kissing the arch, whispering a long soliloquy, it seemed, and his fingers carefully curl into Ushijima’s shirt sleeve. He pulls away, face still slightly pinked. Ushijima nods, and returns to morning practise as if nothing has happened.

 

Kawanashi snorts at the look on Shirabu’s face, mutters something in their shared mother tongue. Unfortunately for him, Shirabu isn’t gentle to everyone, or anyone but Ushijima and Reon, and chucks the ball he was about to set into Kawanashi’s face.

 

To Kawanashi’s credit, when the ball peels off his face, he’s still impressively stoic as ever, arching one blonde eyebrow at Shirabu.

* * *

When the sky is dark, and Saitou chases all of them out, telling them to go back to the dorms, the team finds themselves wandering off campus into the town nearby, half of them still twitching with practise that morning and after school practise hasn’t drained from their limbs yet. The other half just find themselves rather peckish. Yamagata wants to show Reon and Ushijima a cute stray.

 

As a team, the volleyball club hardly ever hang out as a whole, normally splitting off into tiny factions of their own, the third years cluttering around Ushijima, Goshiki with Shibata and Sagae, Shirabu and Kawanashi slipping off in a haze of foreign banter as Yunohama zones out to indie music.

 

That’s not to say this isn’t happening on a lower scale now.

 

Akakura and Goshiki are listening to music, Goshiki showing off the ear jack splitter he had purchased recently. Shirabu and Kawanashi are quietly discussing something that devolved into expressive eyebrow movements, and Semi was trying to pull away Ushijima and Reon from Yamagata’s stray dog, as Tendou and Soekawa stand by and laugh at his futile efforts.

 

Shirabu stopped, turned on his heel to look at the dog Ushijima was patting carefully, in long, smooth strokes of the surprisingly glossy fur. Kawanashi rolls his eyes at Shirabu’s expression, the eyes heavy with adoration, lips relaxing, this entire face rounding into a soft candlelight glow, and knows to move away.

 

_(Kawanashi has been his friend since age 11. They may not be Oikawa and his Iwa-chan from Aoba Johsai, but they’re pretty synced. Besides, Kawanashi and Shirabu have zero sexual tension.)_

 

Ushijima looks up, and their eyes connect. There’s no smile-because Ushijima hardly smiles-but the way Ushijima’s hand leaves the dog’s head, and the way he ambles over to Shirabu, blinking just a bit too quickly, he's affected.

 

Shirabu taks Ushijima’s large hand between his thumb and three fingers, pinky floating.

 

“ _And just this morning my love was briefly stuck in my throat._ ” Shirabu’s tenor is quiet, but the night is quieter, cars mere flies buzzing over gravel roads, so it carries over to their teammates.

 

The words sink in with varying time differences, the ones who got it faster better at English after all, but they get the gist of what Shirabu said.

 

Ushijima takes Shirabu’s hand in his, entwining fingers as if tangling vines.

 

_(“Like a blowjob, or?” Tendou whispers to Semi, who can only slap Tendou in response. “Have some semblance of romance, Satori.” says Soekawa.)_

 

Later, their team spread carefully over two tables in a diner, most of them slumped in their chairs, stomachs heavy with food. Shirabu is bickering with Kawanashi again, in that language that their teammates just couldn’t place. There’s strangely rounded Us and Os and oddly short/elongated sounds coming out of their mouths.

 

“What language is that?” Goshiki asks carefully, Akakura’s face echoing his curiosity.

 

“Finnish.” Ushijima answers for them, swallowing his last mouthful of rice. “But Kawanashi is answering in Swedish.”

 

Goshiki blinks.

 

“Shouldn’t you guys be speaking the same language?” Yamagata asks through a mouthful of vegetable dumplings. “For clarity?”

 

“That’s why I’m so annoyed.” Shirabu bites out, shoving at Kawanashi’s elbow with his own. “It’s not like Finnish is Norwegian, I can’t understand you at all, our languages share no similarities.”

 

“Our countries used to be married, Elias.” Kawanashi slumps further into Shirabu’s personal space, spread one long arm over his table space, to annoyed huffs. 

 

“If you want me to be able to understand you, use German, _Jakob_.”

 

“Are you guys half?” Goshiki asks, eyes darting back and forth.

 

Tendou barks from across the table, a pile of empty sugar packets before him. He rips open another one, which Semi snatches away and dumps into Yunohama's tea. “You never noticed, Tsutomu? What ‘bout their hair?”

 

“I thought it was dyed?”

 

“Nah, that’s just Semi-Semi.”

 

Ushijima pulls Shirabu part-way onto his lap, away from Kawanashi, who by now has draped his entire torso across Shirabu’s table space, cheek pressed on top of his chopsticks, ignoring Shirabu’s hissed complaints: “The table’s dirty, are you trying to wipe it? Are you a rag?”

* * *

Ushijima and Shirabu are fighting.

 

The tension is palpable, thick among the air of the gym. It comes mainly from Shirabu, who comes in with swollen eyes and twitchy fingers. Ushijima just looks unfazed.

 

To Shirabu’s credit, he still acts completely normal, stretches normal, plays normal, even scolds Goshiki for not doing the proper warm-ups.

 

But the moment morning practise is over, Shirabu turns on his heel and leaves for the changing rooms, posture oddly proper, steps carefully paced as he picks up his water-bottle and towel, the lines of his body harsh as he disappears through the doors. When everyone begins to gather in the changing room, Shirabu smoothly slides away from them, amber orbs sticking to the floor. Kawanashi, with a twist to his lips, pulls on his shirt, grabs Shirabu’s bag for him, and hustles his friend out of the changing room with a hand on his shoulder.

 

“What did you do, Wakatoshi.” Semi hisses once the door shuts quietly behind the two, closing Kawanashi’s locker. Semi has grown protective of his protege, evident in his curling fingers and slowly furrowing eyebrows, his jaw twisting in irritation.

 

Wakatoshi avoids his eyes, slowly buttoning up his school shirt. His face remains impassive.

-

“Wakatoshi.” Tendou speaks up, interrupting the tense air of the changing room, for once serious. After all, Ushijima had been glaring holes into his locker _(more like grumpily pouting at)_.“You were talking to Oikawa, right?”

 

Shirabu and Kawanashi didn’t come to after school practise-the first time for Shirabu to ditch training. Washijo was fuming, until Semi smoothly covered by saying the two had sudden student council activities. It’s not like Washijo cared enough to check.

 

Wakatoshi grips at the fabric of his bag, mouth skewing downwards in displeasure. He grunts in affirmation. Goshiki looks between the three third years, picks up his bag and shoes, and carefully backs away, Shibata and Sagae following close behind.

 

Soekawa sighs, peeling off the tape from his ankle, the skin releasing with a flush of red. He carefully folds the sticky side into itself, until the strip of dirtied tape becomes a thick rectangle and disposes of it in the trash can.

 

“Wakatoshi.” Soekawa starts, and stops as Ushijima slumps onto a bench. “Wakatoshi, did you-“

 

“You should have come to Shiratorizawa.” Yamagata mimics Wakatoshi’s deep bass, coughing as his vocal chords rasp.

 

“That.” Soekawa finishes, smacking Yamagata for the interruption. “He went with you to the match, right? Don’t you think it’s hurtful for him to hear you say that?”

 

Ushijima nods. Reon sits down next to him  with a _“There we go…”_ to lace his shoes up.

 

“And he waited for you while you talked to Oikawa.”

 

A nod.

 

_(“More like harassed.” Tendou mumbles. Ushijima shoots him a burning glare, but Tendou remains unaffected, arching an eyebrow back and blowing a raspberry in retaliation.)_

 

“And he heard your conversation.”

 

Nod.

 

“It sounds like you’re trying to replace Shirabu with Oikawa.” Reon says, finishing off a double knot carefully with clumsy fingers.

 

“I am not trying to do that. If Oikawa was part of the team, he would draw out the best of everyone’s ability. That is all.” Ushijima grumbles, eyebrows furrowing.

 

Yamagata holds up a hand, even though he’s standing behind Ushijima. “Doesn’t matter. To Shirabu it sounds like you’re tryna replace him. Shirabu came to Shiratorizawa to be your setter right? Kawanashi even said Shirabu changed his play style to support you. So when you tell Oinkawa to come here, and replace Shirabu’s position as setter, it insults him. Makes him out to be second best, the second choice, and that’ll translate over to your relationship."

 

Semi nods in agreement, folding his arms. Ushijima draws his bag into his lap. “Shirabu has insecurities. And when you bring him there, let him overhear that conversation, you deepen those doubts. Of course you guys fought!”

 

Ushijima slumps, fingers fiddling with his bag’s zipper, eyes are narrowed as he glares into the floor.

 

“You made him cry, so you should go and make it up to him.” Tendou says.

 

“Kawanashi will not let me near him.” Ushijima rasps, eyes narrowing even further, lips pursing slightly.

 

Tendou smacks Ushijima’s forehead with a slipper. “I bet it’s because you tried to continue the argument until Shirabu admits you’re right.”

 

Ushijima suddenly looks sheepish to which Soekawa sighs and slaps him on the back.

 

“We know you didn’t mean to hurt him.” He comforts, hand patting a steady rhythm between Ushijima’s shoulder blades. “Shirabu probably knows that.” Tendou pats Ushijima’s bowed head.

 

Ushijima just bows it even lower, looking like a scolded child.

 

“I’ll talk to Taichi.” Yamagata volunteers. “And you can go talk to Shirabu, and fix your relationship.”

 

“Seriously, you really are tactless.” Tendou bemoans. “You’re too blunt.”

-

Kenjirou sniffs, staring blankly at his laptop. On screen, Akira’s halved body lays limp and lifeless as Ryo rambles to him. Kenjirou sniffs louder, sweater paws coming up to wipe at his tears. He grits his teeth, and balls his hands into fists, clutches tighter to the Shiba Inu plush that Taichi shoved into his hands. He sticks his face into it, gets a good whiff of the lavender laundry detergent to calm himself down.

 

Kenjirou knows Wakatoshi didn’t mean it like that. Wakatoshi just puts his thoughts into his blunt, straightforward way of speaking. But doesn’t mean Kenjirou's fine with it.

 

He still remembers the conversation he overheard, waiting for Wakatoshi around the bend of the wall, and how painful it suddenly felt, the way his heart seized up in sudden distress. He felt so replaceable right there and then, a second-rate replacement.

 

For Wakatoshi to so actively try to get Oikawa Tooru into the Shiratorizawa team, it felt - well, _wrong_. Kenjirou snuffles back the wall of mucus building up in his throat miserably. Wakatoshi didn’t pursue him as hard as he dogged Oikawa’s steps - to be fair, Kenjirou was completely weak when it came to him, but still.

 

When Wakatoshi returned, Kenjirou asked if Oikawa was better than him. Wakatoshi's affirmative came quick, like he didn’t have to think about it. “If he came to Shiratorizawa, would he take my spot?” Kenjirou had then asked, wobbly, eyes suddenly burning wasabi-hot, lips numbing from the teeth that Shirabu cuts into it with. Wakatoshi said yes, and Kenjirou’s eyes mutated into a pair of leaky faucets _(Ugh, he was so_ **_weak_ ** _)_ and their curt conversation became an argument about Kenjirou's worth on the team.

 

Wakatoshi's blunt and honest reply of “But he is better than you, and thus better for the team." made Kenjirou shut his mouth, bite at his lips. They returned to Shiratorizawa in silence, Kenjirou’s head bowed and body angled to avoid Wakatoshi, lest he start crying in public again.

 

And this morning, Wakatoshi had tried to re-argue his point, trying to get Kenjirou to agree with him, and he had to run away, tears dripping yet again, body trembling and drowning in doubt and hurt.

 

He opened Taichi's door and quietly shut it, his friend looking up in annoyed surprise as cereal crumbs fell from his mouth, the expression quickly replaced by concern. Kenjirou slinked onto his bed and stole a armful of pillow and stuffed toys, and explained what happened as he watered Taichi's Piranha Plant plush with his tears.

 

Taichi spent the whole day pushing Wakatoshi away, making sure their senior couldn’t get to them, sneaking him away during lunch into an empty classroom so Kenjirou could wallow in guilt more, letting Kenjirou have the quiet to weep in comfort, trying to massage the red away from Kenjirou's puffy eyes.

 

The two secluded themselves, as the taller one patted Kenjirou's back and fed him candy, and even skipped practise to take Kenjirou out for grilled whitebait. Taichi fumbled through halting Finnish, trying to comfort Kenjirou’s dejected form as he ate mechanically, chopsticks tearing into steaming flesh as Kenjirou sniffled for the umpteenth time. Taichi even bought him a popsicle on the way back to the dorms, and passed him their shared stash of salmiakki.

 

But Yamagata came by Kenjirou’s room for Taichi, dropping off a packet of sour candy and a pat on the head for Kenjirou, apologising and saying something about English homework. Now, Kenjirou was left alone to re-watch Devilman Crybaby for the fifth time alone, ignoring his homework as he mournfully pops in a small mouthful of chewy salmiakki. He wished he went to practise, his limbs jittery with confused energy, but he can’t see Wakatoshi’s face right now. Maybe tomorrow, he thinks, and swallows the last of the salmiakki, savouring the salty aftertaste.

 

The door opens, and Kenjirou looks up, expecting Taichi.

 

Wakatoshi closes the door behind him quietly, paper bag in hand. Wakatoshi looks as composed as ever. Kenjirou's heart twitches painfully, veins constricting and arteries going taut.

 

“Kenjirou. Are you alright?” Wakatoshi intones, setting down his paper bag. Kenjirou nods. “Can I talk to you?” Wakatoshi asks, words carefully rolling out from between his lips.

 

Kenjirou nods instinctively, suddenly aphonic, and closes his laptop to curl his body around the giant plush. His eyes are red and sticky with fresh waterworks. He looks so ugly right now. Wakatoshi sits down in front of him. Kenjirou hopes he doesn’t want to continue their argument.

 

“I am sorry for arguing with you.” He says, taking Kenjirou’s hands in his, face carefully composed. “I did not mean that I wanted to replace you. At all. I most certainly don’t want to date Oikawa. Oikawa is better than you at volleyball, but that does not matter, really. It is you I want to play volleyball with, really, not him. Seeing you upset because of my words, I…” Wakatoshi trails off, staring at Shirabu’s legs, head bowed. Shirabu feels the pressure on his hands increase. "I am not good with my words, and I think you know that."

 

“I am…more than sorry. And I love you.” Wakatoshi whispers, confessional, dark eyes flicking up to connect with Kenjirou’s.

 

The words sink in, a slow heat burns at Kenjirou’s skin, his mind goes fuzzy, breath catches. Love, love, ardor, ardor, rings through Kenjirou’s head, into his skin, flesh, vibrating in his bones.

 

 _Love_ , Kenjirou dizzily thinks, tries the word out on his tongue, and the seeping of love spreads into his joints, making him drunk on saccharine emotion.

 

Kenjirou slips forward, hands smoothing out onto Wakatoshi’s firm pecs, shoving him forward. An expanse of long legs, shifting in time with the quiet creaking of the bed as Kenjirou straddles Wakatoshi’s hips. Kenjirou’s fingers are careful, slipping the buttons through the slits of the fabric, maddeningly slow. Wakatoshi lets Kenjirou slip off the shirt, blinking in surprise, the garment pushed to the floor. Kenjirou locks eyes with Wakatoshi, pushes himself up to flicker on his knees, wriggles his thumbs into the hem of his shorts. Kenjirou has this amorphous look about his features, utterly slackened and languid, lashes heavy with insinuation.

 

_(When Wakatoshi came in, he saw the stretch of creamy calves and thighs, milky white definition, tempting spread of slender limbs in tiny, tiny, shorts. Underwear, really. Wakatoshi has seen that pair for sale in the window of a women’s undergarment shop. He shakes it off, he’s here to apologise and make Kenjirou understand the importance of Kenjirou’s existence.)_

 

Wakatoshi is wide-eyed as Kenjirou slides down his tiny shorts, clutching at Kenjirou's rumpled duvet as if to steady himself. Blue velvet slips down smooth skin. Wakatoshi lifts a reverent hand, smooths it appreciative down over the exposed epidermis, presses a line down the jut of his hip, down to rest above the curve of his posterior, thumb dipping into the dimple of Venus there. Hairless, silky, all for Wakatoshi and Wakatoshi only. Kenjirou slides his hand into Wakatoshi’s pants to fondle him, pops the closure open, pulls his sex out.

 

One gentle, happy smile, the curve of the lip just so, dim light sinking into pale thighs and calves. The head tits, pinked flesh winks, old tears drips from lashes like tiny diamonds. lips part, breath his name, playful tongue peeks out to wet that mouth, lids lower to crown smouldering eyes with sunlit lashes. Kenjirou presses forward, lips beckoning, calling, and Wakatoshi mindlessly arches up to join their lips.

 

Wakatoshi’s hands grip slim hips, pushes him up the bed in a display of animalistic strength, burning with fervour. It’s hot, in both senses of the word, a hot mouth, hot and tastes like citrus candy inside Kenjirou’s mouth, his tongue up front to bat. Wakatoshi’s hand slides under his sweatshirt, rips it off. Kenjirou cooing like a siren as his legs entrap, pull him close, Wakatoshi looms forward, presses forward, pushes against the curvature of his body, bites and sucks at his skin, kisses away the tear tracks, the mouth with its fuller bottom lip.

 

No time for foreplay, Wakatoshi and Kenjirou are desperate for each other.

 

Kenjirou pants, fans out his legs, throws his head against the headboard when Wakatoshi slides his fingers in and mercilessly start to fuck him with his fingers, mewling in heat, scrabbling for purchase on topographies of muscle, exposes the slope, the escarpment, of his lilied throat, moaning as Wakatoshi bottoms out. Time shivers to a trickling stop, all Wakatoshi feels are trembling thighs and uncomparable sucking heat, tight, all he hears begging prayers and wet noises as he goes maddeningly slow, and everything narrows down to nails biting, lips sucking, slick warmth and pretty fingers digging into skin, Wakatoshi’s hand pressing into his throat. The button and teeth of his open fly catch on, dig into Kenjirou’s skin.

 

Wakatoshi likes the way Kenjirou clenches down impossibly tighter and sings his moans as wakatoshi moves, loves that flushed skin and desperate gasps as Kenjirou calls Wakatoshi his god and begs for even more, and when Kenjirou comes, a mess of gold and still asks for more. Turns around on tottering knees and presents himself for fucking, punch lollipop lips, sighs when he presses shaking hands flush against the wall and purrs when his cheek is pressed to the wall when he’s hitched up, held up, slid into and mercilessly wrecked, once, twice, than thrice, again.

 

In the middle of it all, Kenjirou’s mumbling in Wakatoshi’s favourite way to express affection:

 

“ _I like-ha~kissing this and t-that of you, i like-ah!- I like slowly stroking the f-f-fah-uzz of your-Toshi, ah, ah!- electric fur-r, and what-it-ish comes over p-ah-rting flessh…And eyes big love-crumbs~_ ”

* * *

“Apricot?” Wakatoshi offers, rolling the golden fruit between his fingers of his right hand, the left buried in Kenjirou's hair. He’s curled up on top of him, using Wakatoshi’s chest as his pillow, sleepy in the afterglow. In the paper bag are a variety of stone fruits, fuzzy burrs of oranges and yellow reds, tiny round sunsets sweet in their delicate skins.

 

Kenjirou looks up, takes the fruit, their fingers brushing together. He thumbs over a soft spot on the fruit, frowning slightly.

 

“It’s bruised.” A twist of a white wrist to show the softened brown spots, shiny with leaking juice.

 

Wakatoshi’s hand settles over one of the hickies on Kenjirou’s neck, warming the skin there, echoing Kenjirou’s hand on the apricot, thumbing gently and rubbing in the purpling bite. Kenjirou hisses in sensitive pleasure, Wakatoshi feeling Kenjirou’s little toes whispering over skin, curling against his calves.

 

“Like your neck?” Wakatoshi murmurs into his head, thumb now rubbing in circles-as if to blend the colour of the love bite in-the vibrations of his words rumbling through Kenjirou’s body, eliciting a small laugh and a golden smile.

* * *

Introspection into a relationship is something that no one wants to see, explicit material or otherwise. But when the team stumble into the clubroom, they see Shirabu careful in Ushijima’s lap, the elder reciting something in English to him with loved lips, Shirabu’s hands creeping up the older's back, rucking up his shirt.

 

“ _…your eyes - closed - all the little tails of your thoughts, your stretchy vowels, your whole soul from head to heels…”_

 

This time round, Eita doesn’t even have to haul any of them out the door.

 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Phrases borrowed (in order):
> 
> 1\. From one of Nabokov's letters to Vera, his wife.  
> 2\. Olena Kalytiak Davis’ “The Gauze of Flowers, A Love Poem”  
> 3\. E.E Cummings’ I like My Body When It Is With Yours"  
> 4\. From one of Nabokov's letters to Vera, his wife.
> 
> -
> 
> I think Ushijima is just someone who grew up a bit isolated from child his age and as a result grew up without the best social skills, including expressing affection. I don't like it when people make him this "you should have come to shiratorizawa" villain hell-bent on stealing Oikawa away from Iwa-chan. While his words do often come off as rude and mean, he is just being blunt. After all, he is portrayed as extremely straightforward, and thus, honest to the point where he doesn't mince words.
> 
> seijhoe on Tumblr wrote a very comprehensive piece on his character, I highly reccomand you check it out:  
> http://seijhoe.tumblr.com/post/138849160754/im-still-writing-anime-metas-and-you-cant-stop-me
> 
> As for Shirabu, he's not just a salt shaker hopelessly in love with Ushijima. This boy saw Ushijima play, was so inspired by it he studied his ass off to get into a school where most people get in through sport scholarships. He changed his play style to better support Ushijima. Do you know how hard that must have been? Friggin' hard, my dudes! Yes, he's a saltshaker, but he is so self-conscious and critical of himself, and his ability to overcome emotions quickly, like after the second set with Karasuno he slapped himself IN THE FACE and then went on to win Shiratorizawa's third set. That's admirable.
> 
> And what I love most about Ushishira's dynamic is that they are so trusting of each other. Ushijima believes Shirabu will help him win the Karasuno match, and Shirabu thinks Ushijima is better than sliced bread. It's beautiful and I wish I had that much trust in my friends. I don't, which is why I admire that dynamic.
> 
> I know that they are just fictional characters, but this just speaks to the quality of Furudate's writing that he can convince me that they could be real, three-dimensional character. Furudate, I love you. Have two of my kidneys, have my right arm, have my extensive collection of Tolkien's works. You deserve it.


End file.
